


A storm in a tea cup

by in_a_pickle



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: A cup of tea solves everything, Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Bookshop bust up, Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), First Kiss, Light Angst, M/M, Misunderstandings, Post Apocalypse, cheesy fluff, couple of f bombs, happy endings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-06
Updated: 2020-10-08
Packaged: 2021-03-08 03:02:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,999
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26818531
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/in_a_pickle/pseuds/in_a_pickle
Summary: Aziraphale steps through from his back room looking rather expectant, his hands fiddle mindlessly with a small book in his hands. “Hello, my dear. Do I take it from your entrance that you have seen the contents of the envelope I gave you?” He looks at Crowley nervously and tries to read his expression which is pretty tricky through a pair of dark sunglasses.“What?” Why was he looking at him like that? “Oh, that envelope! No, sorry, erm . . . I didn’t get round to it, something came up. Was it important?”*What could possibly go wrong?*
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 24





	1. Make tea, not war.

“Blast it!” Shouts the angel.

There was no more putting it off. Those wretched boxes in his store room had just claimed their last stubbed toe.

He has Adam Young to thank for them, Adam Young and his post-apocalyptic makeover. Adam Young and his dark powers that had flung the last of the angel’s miscellany into a multitude of unrecognisable boxes because it had run out of patience with the enormity of the task.

That was six months ago. It was time for a sort out.

Aziraphale picks up and plonks one of the smaller boxes onto the coffee table knocking off an empty wine bottle in the process. It rolls under the sofa to join a few more of its dusty brethren.

He carefully eases off the packing tape, pausing as you do just before you open an old box of memories, wondering what forgotten treasures were waiting to be found. After 6000 years of being a Class A serial hoarder there might even be a few items of interest to the British museum, although he did have to ‘miracle in’ the last lot as the curators were getting suspicious of his sources.

He unfolds the cardboard tabs and pulls out a pair of wide bowled Babycham glasses carefully wrapped in tissue paper. They saw a lot of use in the mid-sixties when Crowley used to pop over for a pre-temptation tipple on a Friday night. He unwraps one and turns it around to catch the dim light suddenly seeing his dear friend Crowley lounging on his sofa all those years ago, with his glass held loosely between the fingers of an open palm trying to educate him on modern music.

The sixties era suited Crowley’s demonic style, Aziraphale thought, sashaying down the streets of Soho in his round sunglasses and tight black outfits, his hair cut into a fashionable beatnik mop top. Then he had to grow that rather lascivious moustache in the seventies and strut around on those ridiculous high heeled shoes like a constipated peacock with absurd chest hair.

21st century Crowley just gives him butterflies.

He shakes his head fondly and puts the Babycham glasses and his memories aside for a moment and peers deeper into the box.

*****

Crowley is brooding, on his throne, slumped like the grand old of King of Melancholy. He’s been at it since yesterday evening and his mood is now as dark as his underwear.

He needs to tell him. He cannot set foot in that bookshop anymore and perform this ridiculous charade, one they have both been acting out for decades. They are free now, there are no repercuasions, they can be together without consequence.

So why is it so bloody hard for him to make it happen?

Crowley scowls at the envelope, his name written in Aziraphale’s curling script, he’s been arrhythmically tapping it on the table top for hours, like some kind of morose code. Aziraphale had handed to him with a smile as he left last night and asked him to open it when he got home, Crowley hadn’t, he doesn’t want this anymore.

Last night he had thought it was about to happen, he actually, stupidly thought for a moment that the angel was going to do . . . something. It had gotten late, they had rambled on and argued about whether you should be allowed to call a breaded vegetable a schnitzel or something, it had all got a bit hazy. Crowley had stretched and yawned as sexily as he could and asked the universe to at least change this particular version of one of its (billionth) parallel dimensions in his favour. He mumbled that it was probably time to head off and that’s when the angel started to behave oddly, like he had this whole scene rehearsed for a local amateur dramatics review.

_“Oh, really my dear is it that time already?” Aziraphale looked at his wrist at a watch he never wore there._

Crowley dismissed this as another Azira-oddity and unravelled himself from the sofa to grab his jacket from the coat stand. When he turned around the angel was standing directly behind him, beaming with genial hospitality.

_“Goodness it is cold out there, make sure you wrap up warm.” Aziraphale took the jacket and gallantly held it up for Crowley to slip into easily. He paid extra attention to buttoning it up and then reached his forearms up over Crowley’s shoulders . . ._

Crowley’s heart stood still, the angel was so close, his mouth was just a lean away, tantalising, soft and no longer forbidden. He could just gently press their lips together, if he wanted to, not much, just enough to let the angel know there was more on offer if he wanted to take it. Or maybe the angel was going to take the lead, slide his hands into his hair and kiss him tenderly like Crowley had daydreamed about for the past gazillion years.

 _“There now,” smiled the angel turning up Crowley’s collar, he took a soft black scarf from one of the hooks and looped it over the demon’s head, winding the ends around until they met back under his chin. He rested his palms over Crowley’s chest, the demon imagined for a second too long, his blue eyes looking in his direction but distracted with his thoughts. “All done,” he said pulling back into himself with a satisfied smile, he gave Crowley’s chest a final brief pat before he stood back, absentmindedly knocking over a small stack of paperbacks._

Crowley looked down at the scarf and then back up at the angel, his brain wailing at him to make sense of what just happened. Was this their new normal, is this what they did now, dress each other, should he now do something back to let the angel know he liked it, oh hell’s bells he was confused. Crowley pulled his mouth into something that he hoped passed for an encouraging smile whilst cursing himself for not seizing the perfectly staged kissing oportunity.

_The angel crossed the bookshop to open the door for him, offering a “mind as you go, don’t drive to fast, let me know when you’re home,” kind of farewell, nothing more._

_When Crowley was half way over the threshold Aziraphale suddenly inhaled in a dramatic gasp, “Wait!” Crowley turned back, his heart thumping, not knowing quite what to expect, “I’ll forget my own head next,” said the angel and strode over to a table where an envelope was quite obviously sitting there waiting to be remembered on cue. He picked it up and pressed it into Crowley’s hand with a shy, “please would you open this when you get home,” before he was propelled gently through the doors and onto the pavement._

Crowley sat for a long time in the Bentley, his mind doing a commendable impression of an olympic high board diver, twisting and turning (what _did_ Aziraphale want just then?), plunging into the abyss of doubt (could an angel and a demon really work?) before sinking slowly to the bottom of the pool in despair (would the angel even say yes?). Okay, so that last bit was an allegory too far but by Satan, angels were complicated beings. He drove home, he opened a bottle of expensive red wine and threw himself into his chair, where he was currently sulking.

_*****_

Aziraphale lifts out the top copy of a set of thin books from inside the box and claps his hands delightedly, once again united with his collection of Brooke Bond tea cards albums that he began collecting in the early 1950’s. It was one of the highlights of the past half century, the combination of ‘tea and collectables’ made for a very happy angel.

“British Butterflies,” he reads as he looks over the cover, “now, that one I recall was released in . . 1963, the year I believe Beatlemania hit Britain.” He remembers how Crowley had arrived at the bookshop one chilly November afternoon holding a 7 inch recording of their latest song “I wanna hold your hand” and insisted on playing it over and over and over on his gramophone until Aziraphale had ungraciously booted him out at gone midnight.

Crowley had only played the B-side once though that day, ‘This Boy’, before mumbling something that sounded like ‘I hated that bloody Oscar Wilde,’. It had hardly been Aziraphale’s fault, that after Crowley’s marathon 19th century sulk, he had re-emerged to find the angel all wrapped up and enamoured with the successful British playwright with no time for his adversary at all. Such a silly, jealous demon, he grins.

The next album he draws out is ‘Famous people 1869-1969’, he collected those cards the year the clever humans landed on the moon. Crowley had come over and they had sat down in the bookshop’s dark back room and watched it on a new television set the demon had bought him, marvelling how far humanity had come. Crowley had said that the moon was just one of the prototypes he had cobbled together when he was creating the Earth’s solar system and there were far superior moons he was waiting to build. But then he got unceremoniously kicked out of heaven and no one bothered to try and make anything better.

The television set is now used to shelve the angel’s collection of Buzz Aldrin biographies and his antique set of cheese knives.

Aziraphale flicks through the pages of the old picture card album, browsing the short information passages by the side of each small portrait, those incredible humans that helped to shape and change the history of the world. The smell of the tea’s sweet fragrance still lingers on the old pages and it wafts up stirring the angel into making himself a fresh pot. He lifts out the rest of the albums whilst it brews and waits for Crowley to arrive.

*****

Crowley looks at his watch, it’s 11am, he imagines Aziraphale is just about to put the kettle on, oblivious to the turmoil he is causing back in Mayfair. Crowley stops tapping the envelope, he should really open it, it was given to him for a good reason as part of that weird performance that went on last night. It was probably a pair of tickets for another romantic opera or fairytale ballet or grossly soppy play that Aziraphale loved to indulge in. And Crowley would have to sit on his sorry arse and watch some other lucky git get their crappy love life sorted out via a series of hilarious misunderstandings. Then to insult his wretched heart even his further he would feel obliged to clap and coo and share how much he had enjoyed it with a doe-eyed and weepy angel over after show drinks. Crowley would then have go home, on his own, get thoroughly and righteously pissed and pass out on the floor.

He turns the envelope over in his hands, tempted to open it, but not enough to do so. Crowley is sick of the endless dates where he has to behave like a good little demon around his angel without touching him, holding him . . . loving him. He can’t do this anymore. He grabs his jacket and slams the door behind him.

*****

The bookshop has been open for 30 minutes when the front door swings open with a crash and the shelves are filled with the familiar thrum of demonic energy. The handful of patrons quietly browsing or subconsciously talking themselves out of a purchase all turn towards the sound. Crowley gives them one of his finest demonic grins and snaps his fingers. Visions of kicked puppies, dropped ice cream cones and cracked phone screens seep into their skulls and everyone suddenly has the urge to down-sticks and cheer themselves up at the nearest cake shop. The ‘Open’ sign flips over behind them.

“Angel!” the demon shouts into the dusty depths, “Angel! We need to talk.” Crowley’s heart is hammering away like a demented woodpecker, he’s not even sure if any words are going to make it out his mouth, let alone form a coherent sentence about how he feels.

Aziraphale steps through from his back room looking rather expectant, his hands fiddle mindlessly with a small book in his hands. “Hello, my dear. Do I take it from your entrance that you have seen the contents of the envelope I gave you?” He looks at Crowley nervously and tries to read his expression which is pretty tricky through a pair of dark sunglasses.

“What?” Why was he looking at him like that? “Oh, _that_ envelope! No, sorry, erm . . . I didn’t get round to it, something came up. Was it important?” Crowley doesn’t want to talk about bloody theatre tickets, he’s here to slash open his chest, rip his heart out and offer it to the angel on a silver platter and he wants to get it over with as quickly as possible.

The angel’s head drops, he sighs and and his eyes close for a moment. “Oh I see.” He says to Crowley’s snakeskin boots. “Well I suppose you can look at it at a time when it’s more convenient to you.” Aziraphale puffs out a short breath and looks up at Crowley with more than a peppering of irritability.

“What's up with you anyway, angel? Crowley asks, his thunder annoyingly stolen by the disgruntled angel. He leans back and pulls his glasses down a fraction to see over, “what are you so testy about?”

Aziraphale offers him a perfunctory smile, “I was . . . expecting to have a different conversation that’s all, but it will have to wait a little longer I see.” 

“What’s that?” Crowley nods to the small book Aziraphale has been playing with all this time, the angel looks at it relieved that there might be a minor diversion on hand.

“Oh, you must remember these,” he ushers Crowley into his back room and shows him the stack of small albums, “my Brooke Bond Tea Card Collection 1954 to 1999.” He sits the demon down on the sofa and pours him a cup of tea, he refills his angel mug with the same teapot that Crowley is sure he’s had since chintz became a thing.

“You’ve still got these! Sorry stupid question, of course you have.” The demon pulls a few towards him and grins as he flicks the pages with his thumb, Aziraphale watches him indulgently as he drinks his tea, the sour mood washed down with the comforting warm liquid. 

“Adam must have put years 1976 to 1999 in another box, but I have the complete collection, although some I had to miracle in, but that’s between you and me.”

He gives an endearing little wiggle that makes Crowley’s insides flip over. Nothing in Crowley’s world is more beautiful than a wiggling angel. This wiggling angel. His wiggling angel . . . he floats away briefly in a whimsical fantasy of white clouds and soft angels and fluffy . . . “

“Crowley?” 

Damn it! He’s being distracted.

“Look angel, I . . . erm, wanted to talk to you about . . . something,” the words get stuck in his mouth like an stubborn piece of toffee.

Aziraphale sits down and takes another sip of tea, “Yes, Crowley. What’s the matter?” He suddenly looks alarmed. “Is everything all right?”

 _‘Look angel, I love you_ ,’ he just needs to say, ‘ _I love you so much and have loved you for so long that it’s probably never going to go away. So I just thought I should tell you, you know, in case you feel the same way.’_ He just needs to find the courage to say the words and it will all be over. He gulps his tea down.

“Ngk” was all he manages with a resigned shrug of a bony shoulder. “S’nothin. What‘s that one?”

“This,” says the angel with a proud flourish of the latest album, “was your favourite, ‘History of the motor car’ published in 1968. Do you remember Crowley how you wanted to finish the album so desperately you brought me every single box of packet tea you could find in the West End. We had it all stacked up here, high as the ceiling.” He giggles in glee.

“Yeah, and you made me give it all away to the Salvation Army after we had raided all the cards,” the demon smirks, “we must have kept them in tea for months.” He flips through the album until he finds the green 1924 Bentley 3 litre, it was Crowley’s favourite card. He had to open thirty two packets of loose tea to find that one.

“The good old days, as they say,” says Aziraphale touching his arm briefly.

“Yeah, but were they _that_ good?” the demon takes his chance, “I mean we were tied to our respective sides, weren’t we, we lived for 6000 years under the fear of being caught ‘fraternising’ if I may use your words.” The angel briefly frowns at him, “But now, now we’re free Aziraphale. We’re no longer accountable to anyone, we can invent a new life for ourselves without fear of retribution,” he hopes to someone that the angel is bright enough to be able to read between the lines.

“Oh look! Talking of inventing things,” Aziraphale holds up the book ‘Inventors and inventions’ with two hands, beaming, “Your friend Leonardo was in this one, with that helicopter idea, it really was brilliant dear boy.”

“Angel, you’re not listening to me.” Crowley begins to feel the moment is slipping away. Nothing is ever going to change. He begins to panic and the dark side of his nature pricks up its ears in interest, it slowly oozes through his veins and begins to grows bigger, feeding off his frustration and feelings of hopelessness. It starts to coil in his belly, gathering venom, getting ready to strike. 

“Of course tea bags were a marvellous labour saving invention back in the day, but now we find they are full of plastic and are bad for the environment . . .”

“Aziraphale, would you listen a moment, I’m trying, really badly, to. . .” The darkness inside Crowley opens its eyes and bares it’s needle sharp teeth.

“I personally feel the nation should have never given up using loose leaf tea, using a the teapot and strainer should all be part of the simple pleasure of making a brew. . .”

“Angel, please . . . . “ Crowley begs, his dark side hisses in pleasure, he can feel it moving, unraveling, rearing up and overpowering him.

“Simply dunking a tea bag in a cup of hot water hardly does it justice at all and don’t get me started on those philistines who put the milk in with their hot water and tea bag . . .”

The beast inside him lunges . . .

“AZIRAPHALE!” 

The angel jumps so violently that he knocks over his tea drowning several of his books including his ‘Freshwater Fish’ collection in hot brown liquid.

“For someone’s ssssssake,” Crowley yells into his hands, “would you just SHUT UP!” The demon leaps up and hauls the angel out of his chair by the lapels of his jacket, and hisses in his face.

“You have no idea, do you, what is going on here, right now in front of your eyes, because you are blindly stuck in the past with all your stupid . . . history things.” He angrily jerks Aziraphale towards him and glares at him with full blown yellow eyes. “Have you considered for one minute that there is more to life than what has happened in the last 6000 years? There is now a _future_ and it can be different for you . . . for _us_ . . . if you want it to be,” he pushes him back, fists still bunched in the fabric, “but I’m not sure you do.”

Crowley lets go of the angel’s clothes and stands back looking despairingly at him, his body shaking with emotion.

He wrestles the spent hissing beast back down inside him with a deep guttural moan.

“I came here today,” he continues, his breathing shallow and shaky, “like an idiot to tell you . . to tell you that . . I’m . .” Crowley desperately tries to summon the rest of the sentence but his shoulders eventually droop and he shakes his head. “That . . . I’m not strong enough to say the words that I want to say and I think you are too weak to hear them.” He looks openly at Aziraphale and holds his hands out from his sides asking the question, “Am I right, angel? Or is there more to you than . . . this?”

Aziraphale straightens his waistcoat and smooths town his jacket his usual expressive face unreadable. His attention is drawn to the mess of tea and card albums on the table. He looks back up at the demon, his glinting blue eyes betray his calm exterior.

“If you’ve quite finished tearing me apart Crowley, I would very kindly ask you to leave my premises.” He makes a gesture and the spilt tea refills his cup but Aziraphale will always see the stains there. “You can see yourself out.”

“Fine,” the demon snorts, jabbing a finger at his chest “stay in denial then, in your safe little bookshop with all your dusty old books, I am going to go, out there, and live _my_ life, _my_ way.”

Crowley turns and strides towards the front door, clicking his fingers to open them. The memory of the last time he snapped open the doors and the flashback of a flaming bookshop only adds to his pain.

The doors slam loudly behind him, propelled by the full force of angelic fury.

*****

 _So, that could have gone better_ Crowley sighs as he slumps into the drivers seat, “Home,” he growls at the Bentley, and puts his foot to the floor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The lyrics to ‘This Boy’. Our poor love sick demon!
> 
> That boy  
> Took my love away  
> Though he'll regret it someday  
> But this boy wants you back again
> 
> That boy  
> Isn't good for you  
> Though he may want you, too  
> This boy wants you back again
> 
> Oh, and this boy would be happy  
> Just to love you, but oh my  
> That boy won't be happy  
> 'Til he's seen you cry
> 
> This boy  
> Wouldn't mind the pain  
> Would always feel the same  
> If this boy gets you back again  
> This boy, this boy, this boy
> 
> Songwriters: John Lennon / Paul McCartney


	2. Where’s there’s tea there’s hope.

Aziraphale had sat down at his desk earlier in the week to compose a letter that would change his life, for better or for worse he couldn’t yet tell. What he did know was that he couldn’t put this off any longer, they both needed some clarity on the subject and now, what with their current status of freedom, was the time to come clean. To admit what he had been saying between the lines for years.

To tell Crowley in not so many words that he loved him.

He picked up his favourite gold pen and smoothed a soft white hand over a thick sheet of writing paper and began to write.

_My dearest Anthony,_

_I hope you do not object to me penning my thoughts by way of a letter, I know it is not the way you would conduct yourself, as you, out of the pair of us, are far more direct in your approach to delicate matters._

_In the last 6000 years we have gone from enemies, to acquaintances and then of course to friends which I am pleased to note has outweighed the time period of all our other relationships._

_We have had the good fortune to live in this incredible world together and we have witnessed first hand the very best and worst that humanity has to offer. Although we have not always seen eye to eye on many worldly matters, there is nobody else I would have wanted to share the frequent laugher and bitter tears with, than you my dearest demon._

_Now that we are free from the ties of our respective associations it leads me to ask the question what is next for ‘our side’. I hope the walls that we have both built to protect ourselves (and each other) from harm are not insurmountable and in time we can find a way to be more than friends, as I have desired for longer than I care to mention._

_I do hope I have not misread your feelings, or misinterpreted the frustration you have felt at the lack of change in our relationship during the past six months. If I have, please accept my sincere apologies and I will have a stern word with my wayward heart, to remain first and foremost, your best friend and angel._

_Yours with the fondest regards,_

_Aziraphale_

The letter was then carefully folded and put into an envelope addressed in Aziraphale’s looping hand to Anthony J Crowley Esq. The angel had no reservations about handing it over to him, the fear of a rebuff was worth every quiet hope he had that his demon felt the same way. He now had to come up with a seamless handover plan.

*****

“Shitshitshitshishishitshiiiiiiit,”

Crowley throws his head into his hands and howls in despair at the angel’s letter now lying open on his desk. Is this his final punishment then? Heaven’s last hurrah. To have the chance to be with the love of his life snatched away from under his nose in a series of misunderstandings that weren’t even a little bit hilarious. He bangs his head on his desk and considers going to yell at his plants again, but one of them had been so frightened when he stormed in earlier that it had leaked sap all over the floor.

And he can’t even begin to imagine how insufferable Aziraphale is going to be over all of this, he’s going to be holding on to every inch of his inflated moral high ground. Crowley can picture him now sitting in his chair, arms folded, his beautiful face stoney with righteous indignation, waiting until the demon has cried tears of blood before he even considers accepting his apology.

He could just to slip into his snake form and hide under his warm duvet until Aziraphale shows him some mercy in a couple of hundred years time. Though that backfired on him last time didn’t it, when he woke up and found the angel had fallen in love with another man-person that wasn’t him. No, that wasn’t going to work at all.

The demon picks up the letter and reads it again, the angel’s words are clear, he feels the same as Crowley, frightened, overwhelmed but hopeful and he is pretty sure that at some point before his giant cock up, the angel loved him.

He sighs and reaches for one of the refilled wine bottles from the night before and re-pours it into a large glass. The angel won’t accept any old ‘it’s because I’m a demon,’ nonsense this time and there is absolutely no way they can hide from facing their feelings anymore, this upset can’t be ignored.

Crowley is going to have to pull off the apology of the century and he thinks he knows just how he might do it.

*****

The bookshop is closed under a new clause, _for the therapeutic consumption of tea and Hobnob biscuits_ , and Aziraphale is sitting where Crowley left him in his chair in the back room staring at nothing in particular. From the fine layer of dust that has settled on his shoes he thinks he’s probably been here for about a week, miracling up pots of tea and chocolate biscuits each time he runs out.

The shop’s bell tinkles as the front door opens with a click and booted footsteps are heard crossing the wooden floor, the unmistakable gait of a being with very long legs and very loose hips.

The footfalls pause for a moment underneath the oculus window and then start up again, more slowly now, in the angel’s direction. Then Crowley’s snakeskin boots are there, and he is leaning, hands in his pockets, back onto a bookshelf. His ungainly limbs try to assemble themselves into something that looks vaguely apologetic.

“I’m surprised you let me in,” Aziraphale hears him say,” I thought you would have put up new wards to keep me out,” the demon’s lame joke falls flat in the space between them.

“You’re always welcome here, you know that Crowley.” The words are said without emotion and the angel continues to stare blankly ahead of him.

Aziraphale is looking deceivingly passive but Crowley knows if he makes one wrong move the angel will rinse him, tear him apart. He is also acutely aware of how much power lies inside that unassuming exterior, how he could be snapped in half with a simple flick of a manicured finger.

Crowley may have to weep blood winning him back, but hell can go to hell if he isn’t going to try.

“Can I sit down?” The demon asks, he knows his angel’s moods by now and he is pretty sure this one isn’t spoiling for a fight.

“Of course,” the angel says still avoiding his gaze, “tea?”

“Thanks, I’ll get it,” Crowley blows a few dust particles from his cup and pours out the steaming amber liquid, “top up?” he asks.

“Why not.”

Crowley fills Aziraphale’s winged mug and adds the perfect splash of milk.

The demon leans back on the sofa, he looking his best, his short red hair is perfectly quiffed, his clothes are black, tight and sexy and his aftershave subtle but heady. He’s aware it does interesting things to the angel’s corporation when he wears it.

His sunglasses are also in his top pocket.

The demon raises his cup to his lips, “So I read your letter.”

A flicker of emotion passes over Aziraphale’s face.

“A little too late it seems.” Crowley can’t ignore the hurt in the angel’s tone, the bastard isn’t going down without a fight.

He loves him all the more for it.

“I made you something,” the demon says with an air of indifference, “as a way of an apology.” He knows Aziraphale wont be able to resist the bait, he loves to be indulged, “but, you know, I understand if you don’t want it.”

Aziraphale shifts in his chair slightly, dislodging a pile of biscuit crumbs off a knee, his shoes start tapping under the table, an unmistakable sign that he is, maybe, considering one of Crowley’s temptations.

The shop is silent, unusually so, except for the grandfather clock that is ticking away back in the bookshop, Crowley is sure it has never sounded that loud, or that pissed off.

A small twitch in Aziraphale’s brow indicates that Crowley has grazed his target, “Well, as you’ve come all this way I suppose you might as well show it to me,” he huffs.

Crowley smiles and pulls out a small package from an inside pocket (that might have been metaphysically adjusted) and places it on the table just out of the angel’s reach.

It’s beautifully wrapped in snowy white paper with a silver and gold tartan ribbon finished in a simple bow. A white feather has been artistically tucked in under the material, it’s an artwork in itself.

It is the embodiment of Aziraphale in present form.

The angel finally lifts his eyes from the package to look up at Crowley, surprised for a moment to see him without his glasses. “What is this?” he asks quietly.

“Open it and you’ll see.” The demon has lost his usual lackadaisical demeanour and he is focused and attentive, he not going to screw this up.

“I’m not sure if I’m in the mood for gifts,” the angel says obstinately, folding his arms and sitting back in his chair.

Crowley looks at him, all soft pouting mouth and mournful blue eyes, his blonde curls even look dejected and sad. The angel puts on a convincing show, Crowley will give him that. He knows well enough though that he’s itching to find out what’s inside the wrapping paper.

“It’s not a gift, it’s an apology,” the demon says softly, “if you’ll accept it.”

Aziraphale hums for a second knowing that once he leans forward and touches the paper Crowley will know his apology has been accepted in part. He’s not entirely happy to let Crowley get away with his cutting remarks so readily (even if some were perhaps a little reflective of the truth), but what are angels, if not creatures of forgiveness. The demon is also so adorably serious and has made such an effort to look irresistible for the occasion, it would be priggish not to meet him half way.

With a pointed look in his direction Aziraphale reaches out lightly touches the paper, it feels soft under the pads of his fingers, luxurious. He slides the package slowly towards him with two fingers then pauses, Crowley holds his breath, the angel takes his hand off the wrapping and puts both of his palms together, prayer fashion, under his snub nose for a second, before he speaks.

“Stupid, blind, weak and in denial I think were some of your more unpleasant accusations Crowley,” his hands drop folded into his lap, “quite an assassination of my character.” The demon’s rising hope plummets, trust the angel to blindside him just as he thinks he’s on a home run.

“In all fairness the stupid remark was directed at your. . erm . . . history things, and not at you.”

“How comforting,” the angel drips acidically.

Aziraphale sits there impassively, drumming his fingers on the arm of his chair. The clock ticks, but softer now.

Crowley waits, perched on the edge of the sofa, silent, waiting.

The angel finally gives a long sigh and picks up the parcel and places it in his lap.

Crowley starts to exhale, then suddenly stops, he hadn’t thought beyond this moment, what if the angel didn’t like it, what if this wasn’t going to work, what if he threw it at him . . what if . . . what if . . .

Very slowly Aziraphale pulls on the ends of the ribbon and removes the feathered decoration, he places them both carefully on the coffee table and rests his hands over the paper.

Crowley rubs the back of his neck and shifts in his seat, come on you bastard, open it, he hisses to himself.

Aziraphale peels back the white paper and takes out a thick hard backed book, of similar shape and size to those still scattered on his coffee table, a reminder of last week’s painful encounter. It has light grey cover that has been illustrated with a simple wings motif, one pair black and one pair white.

The angel chances a look in Crowley’s direction, a dark eyebrow flicks up, Crowley nods towards the book encouragingly, the small bead of sweat clinging to his hair line doesn’t dare to move.

Aziraphale opens the cover and looks at the title page, it reads ‘6000 years’ in beautiful gold lettering. The angel purses his lips and turns the thin paper over.

On the opening page there is a beautiful little set of small hand-drawn cards arranged under a gold heading that simply says ‘ _Eden, the day we met_ ’. There is a picture of a huge black and orange snake, another drawing of a young blonde haired angel with a flaming sword, a man and woman wearing fig leaves holding an apple, two winged figures standing on a very high wall, each card partnered with its own touching anecdote.

And so the story of Crowley and Aziraphale’s life on Earth begins to unfold.

On the next page, an ark with a runaway unicorn, a rainbow and a dove, on another page a group of cards surround a lone crucifix on a hill. There are two ‘Romans’ eating oysters, an Agreement handshake, a bored actor talking to a skull, each one sketched in Crowley’s unique scratchy style.

“I had to make it bigger and longer because, well, we’ve seen quite a lot in our time.” He adds.

With each turn of a page Aziraphale’s mouth grows softer and his eyes begin to blur, he blinks to clear them, a lunch of crepes in Paris, a pair of Victorian gentlemen feeding the ducks in St James’s Park . . .

“You’ve even included dear old Oscar,” the angel says with an uncontrollable sniff and a wipe of his nose.

“It was 50/50.” shrugs the demon, knowing this was literally his trump card. The dark mood in the bookshop is starting to lift, the clock now ticks gently, the books relax back into their rows and the creaks and bumps tentatively re-emerge, dust motes begin to fall again like tiny stars.

“And you remembered all these places and all these people?” Aziraphale looks up at him with a smile at last.

“Time spent with you is hard to forget angel,” Crowley’s eyes are soft, genuine, no trace of his usual sarcasm.

“Did you . . ” Aziraphale gestures a ‘summing snap’, the demon shakes his head. “It must have taken you hours my dear,” The angels voice is a bit choked, the pages continue to be turned.

“Well, it did help, being able to stop time for bit. That’s a power, not a miracle for the record.” He justifies, thinking every second was worth it, to see the joy on his angel’s face.

“It’s the most beautiful apology I have ever had Crowley.” The angel dabs his eyes with his handkerchief, “but why this, why did you make it?” He continues to turn page after page of their shared memories.

“Well I thought it might get your attention more effectively than erm . . . shouting,” he holds up the copy of ‘Famous people 1869 – 1969’, “and we are way more interesting than some of these boring gits. . . so . . . I made a book of our own.”

Crowley slips off the sofa and comes to rest at Aziraphale’s feet, one bony forearm leaning up on the arm rest. The demon looks up at the angel, “Maybe what I can’t say in words I can show you in pictures.” Aziraphale lays his soft hand upon the demons bony one and gives it a small squeeze.

They look at the last few pages together, laughing now at Crowley’s depiction of Gabriel and Beelzebub at the airbase, Aziraphale as Crowley in the bath of holy water, Crowley as Aziraphale breathing out demonic hellfire.

“Oh!” said the angel surprised, “the last one is missing!”

Crowley looks into the angels blue eyes, “It’s not missing Aziraphale, it’s our wild card, it’s for what is yet to come.” Crowley takes hold of the angel’s hand, “You can decide what the final picture will be in this chapter of our story and whatever you choose I’ll be okay with it. Nothing means more to me than loving this crazy world with you.”

Aziraphale quietly sits back in his chair to look fully into the demon’s serpentine eyes. He slowly lifts his hand and rests it on the demons cheek, his thumb brushing over the angular bone, he smiles, Crowley wonders if the angel can hear his heartbeat, it sounds like a riveting ping pong rally. He closes his eyes for the briefest of moments and savours the angel’s touch.

Aziraphale’s hand slides from his warm cheek around to the nape of the demon’s neck threading through his short red hair, his fingers gently playing with the loose strands. He leans down towards him, and tilts up the demons sharp chin with the crooked finger of his free hand. Crowley looks into the angel’s blue eyes, they sparkle, there is love there, no longer hidden.

“You are indeed the most precious of all Her creations.” The angel whispers, touching their foreheads together, his breath warm and sweet lingers between them.

“Aziraphale . . .” is all Crowley can say, not daring to move, hovering in the glorious state of pre-kissing limbo.

“Oh, you do smell so good,” Aziraphale murmurs, inhaling and brushing his nose across the demon’s cheek, “you damned fiend.”

“Apology accepted?” Crowley breathes, his gaze dropping to the angels soft mouth, “I can’t do this if you’re still mad at me,” his lips try to find purchase as Aziraphale brushes them gently with his own.

“I forgive you,” Aziraphale trembles out the words, hands sliding into red hair, thumbs resting softly on the demon’s temples.

“Then just fucking kiss me will you,” Crowley hisses rising up and grabs the collar of Aziraphale’s jacket pulling their mouths together in a deep and lingering embrace.

“Manners Crowley!” Aziraphale laughs on to his lips whilst returning the sentiment with equal enthusiasm.

Then the demon is up on his knees drinking in the angels soft and eager kisses, like a parched wasteland welcoming the cool autumn rain. He stays there obediently knelt at the angels feet whilst he is worshiped with lips and caresses and chastisements. Aziraphale feels like he is being warmed to the bones by the first fragile rays of spring, Crowley’s mouth is full and hungry yet hesitant as if he is holding back a desire so intense it could catch flame.

And then there are contented moans and laughing and “Fuck, you’re an immense kisser,” and other such sounds and touches that suggest this might just be the prelude to the main event. One where two beings who have longed for the intimate touch of each other for so long finally get to indulge in their deepest fantasies without fear of discovery.

The angel finally draws some kind of breath to find a flushed and rumpled demon settled happily in his lap, both hands buried in his white curls, not in danger of leaving the party any time soon. His hair is disheveled, his shirt undone to the waist and he’s holding Aziraphale’s bow tie like a trophy. Aziraphale wipes the moisture from Crowley’s lips with a smooth thumb and gently kisses the corner of his mouth.

“Without sounding a little trite, I love you Anthony J Crowley and have done for a very, very long time.”

Crowley’s smile spreads down to the soles of his scaley feet, “and all it took was a spilt cup of tea to make you admit it,” he shakes his head in disbelief before pressing in to claim more angelic kisses his arms encircling the angel’s rounded waist.

Aziraphale holds him off for a second and chances a lean forward to look down at the last page of their book and smiles softly at the new picture card that has appeared there. Long bony fingers find his shoulders and push him back, deep into his chair, before he willingly submits to the passions of his beloved demon.


End file.
